Bird Brained!
by UnluckyIrishBreifcase
Summary: When Iceland decides to read a strange book of Norway's, it carries some rather unforeseen consequences. Now the transformed nation must find a way to return to his original shape before time runs out, and he is stuck in a new and unfamiliar form for the rest of his days.
1. Chapter 1: Transformation

Author's Note: ANOTHER FIC!

I know the other ones aren't done, but damnit i need a break i hit writer's block SO BAD

So thus we get this silly little thing that popped into my head yesterday.

please pardon the subpar quality it is literally well past one in the morning

Hope You Enjoy~

-Erin

* * *

><p>Iceland had made many mistakes in his long life. Being a nation it was bound to happen.<p>

But _this_ took the prize.

Because some way, somehow, Iceland had managed to get himself turned into a goddamned **bird**

* * *

><p>It all started three hours earlier in Norway's house.<p>

Iceland was on the couch, flat on his back with a book a foot from his nose. The house was simple and bright, and sunlight spilled in from the windows. A fjord could be seen through the largest, a deep watery blue in the midday sun.

It was calm, it was peaceful, it was everything Iceland could have asked for on a trip to visit his big brother.

And obviously, it wasn't going to last.

The rapid thunder of heavy boots was Iceland's first warning. He looked up, sharply, then heaved a sigh. He placed his book face down on his chest, then looked back up, frowning in displeasure as the whole of Scandinavia trumped inside.  
>Sweden appeared first, shrugging off his blue trenchcoat and setting it on the back of an arm chair. He was soon followed by Denmark, who narrowly avoided Iceland with his own coat.<p>

Norway was last, face a cool mask as always while he eyed the coats placed willy-nilly. He soon spotted Iceland, sulking on the couch.

"Oh," he paused. "You're here early." Iceland had to resist the urge to make a scathing wisecrack. He knew it would not go over well.

"I didn't have anything else to do for once," he said instead. Norway's brows twitched down, but he didn't push the matter.

"How are things over at your place, hm?" he asked instead.

"Fine. My bosses are idiots and I would kill for some Mackerel," Iceland flipped his book back up and picked up where he left off. Norway froze, then took a deep, deep breath. Iceland could see the irritation flash in his eyes. Sweden and Denmark stopped, and stared at the two brothers.

The blow up they were waiting for never happened, thank goodness. Norway didn't even glance at Iceland, instead striding stiff-backed to the kitchen.

"You guys want anything to drink?" he asked aloud.

"Beer!" Denmark declared. Sweden grunted his agreement. Iceland didn't answer since it was pretty clear, to him, at least, that the question was for him.

Whatever he thought, Not like I drink when you people are around anyway. He kept on reading, losing himself in the pages and tuning out the rest of the nordics.

This unspoken arrangement went on for a pretty solid chunk of time. Finland showed up at some point, and somehow managed to work his way into whatever politicalese the scandinavians were speaking. They could have been talking anything from trade to nuking someone and Iceland wouldn't have cared.

The youngest nordic was thoroughly lost in his book.

Said book, however, was suddenly pulled right out of his hands.

Iceland let out a surprised squawk, and looked up. Norway loomed over him, book in the air and hand on his hip. He was looking at Iceland in the way a parent might look at a bratty kid.

"Give that back!" Iceland snapped, reaching up for the book. Norway just lifted it higher.

"You wanted to be so involved in our talks; why don't you join us?" Norway asked, sounding polite and calm. But Iceland knew this was just his way of getting back at him for the younger nation's earlier remark.

"I was reading that!" Iceland pointed out, angrily. "Give it back!" He sat up and made another grab for the book. Norway lifted it away again.

"Why, what's it about?" he asked, eyeing the cover. It was in Icelandic, so he couldn't really read much of it.

"Nothing!" Iceland glared hard at his older brother, hand outstretched for the book.

"Oh? Then why were you so intent on getting it back?" Norway countered.

Iceland grit his teeth.

"Just give me my book!" he demanded.

"No," Norway responded simply. With that, he turned on his heel, and walked back to the other nations. Iceland watched, incredulously. He raised his hands in a "what the hell?" gesture, but was ignored.

When it was clear Norway was not going to return his book, Iceland let out an exasperated sigh. He hauled himself off the couch, and stood, stretching. He glared at Norway's back, and stalked off into the interior of the house. Sweden, Denmark, and Finland all watched him as he pushed past them. Their stares bore into Iceland's back as he stalked away.

Stairs lead up to the upper levels, but Iceland ignored these. He was sure the other's would eventually track him down up there and give him crap for his 'tantrum', so he took the other route.

A set of spiral stairs were tucked into a hidden corner of the house. It was dark there, with no windows or lights, and an air or forbiddance hung around the entire space. Iceland knew this was the way to Norway's lower level "workshop"; a locked door with some strange markings across the front.

It was supposed to be impossible to break into, Iceland was sure. And if he had felt so inclined, he would prove Norway rather spectacularly wrong. But he knew better. If his dealings with Huldufolk had taught him one thing, it's that places with strange markings on it usually had more than locks to keep intruders out.

Instead, Iceland let himself flop down in the hallway leading from the stairs to the door. It was small and unlit so Ice could barely see a thing, but it was secluded. That was all he could ask for at that point.

The nation let out a sigh, then relaxed into the wall. Norway could be a pain sometimes, but he was, on the whole, not that bad. They were brothers, after all.

Not that Iceland was thinking about this, of course. He was still in a piss-poor mood. He inspected the little hallway with narrowed eyes. It was dark and dingy, a strange contrast to the rest of the quaint, albeit meticulous home. It fit, what with the strange door looming but two meters away.

Something caught his eye.

Iceland focused on it, trying to make out what it was in the dim light.

A book.

It was a book.

A very old, leather bound book.

Iceland blinked. He had never found anything in this hallway aside from dust and cobwebs.

Slowly, Iceland reached out to pick it up. The book felt strange in his hand, like it was from the very early days of books in general. The spine creaked as he very gingerly opened it. The pages were yellowed and probably made out of an animal's skin.

It was like no book Iceland had seen outside of a library.

The neat scrawl on the pages was in a language Iceland recognized as Old Norse. It was written over yet older, indecipherable writing, like notes in a textbook. Or translations.

Iceland stared at it, utterly fascinated.

iIt must have come from the 'workshop'! A book of Norway's no one was meant to see but himself.

Iceland glanced at the stairs, then grinned slyly.

Norway had taken his book, so why not take one of Norway's?

With enthusiasm, Iceland skimmed the ancient tome. It made no sense to him, but he didn't care. The passages read like spells of some sort, no story, or coherency really. Iceland could understand it, of course. His language was still so similar to Old Norse he had no issue reading it. He was sure the other nordic's could if they wanted too, but Iceland still prided himself on his literacy in the tongue.

Finally, one page caught his attention.

An image of a cloak of feathers adorned the side of the page. The new writing was written over the original passage, and unlike the rest it was rather plain and straightforward. No notes, no instructions, only the simple passage.

It fascinated the nation.

Something strange drove Iceland to read it aloud. The chance he could be found down there was great if he did so, but for some reason he just couldn't help himself. It was like the page was speaking to him.

Iceland recited the words. Then he paused. Waiting.

Nothing happened.

He stared at the book, as if expecting something, _anything_, to occur.

When it didn't, Iceland sighed, and put the book back where he found it. He made sure to get it as close to the original position as possible before leaning back, staring at it. He hadn't thought anything would happen, but for whatever reason it was still a let down. How cool would it be if whatever spell or incantation it was had worked?  
>Iceland shooed the thought away. He should be relieved; there was no way of knowing what it would do.<p>

The voices upstairs were still going strong. Iceland stood and shook himself. It wouldn't be pretty if Norway found him down here, so he decided to slip back to his 'room' for the time he was there.

He turned and took one pace. Iceland's mind went back to the passage in the book.

Two paces. What was it meant to do? Nothing would say.

Three paces. The cloak seemed familiar, though he couldn't remember why at that moment.

Hey, were the stairs farther away?

Four paces. Iceland could have sworn it had something to do with a myth.

Why did everything look so weird.

Six paces. Seven paces.

Iceland stopped.

Something was wrong. Something was very, _very _wrong.

Iceland gasped, swaying on his feet. A force hit him like a blow. The world fell into a tail spin, going around and around and around. Iceland stumbled this way and that, trying to get to the stairs. He had to get help! He had to get Norway! Something was _wrong_. He tried to cry out, to scream for help, but no sound came.

Iceland swooned, blacking out as he fell to the floor.

It was dark, and it was cold. Iceland's last sight before he slipped to unconsciousness were the stairs. The stairs that were too far away...

Iceland awoke.

The first feeling he felt was his heart, thudding in his chest. He was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to go that fast. He blinked his eyes open, and stared at the stairs.

He could make out each and every little detail, every nut and bolt and scuff and scratch. Iceland blinked. It also looked big. _Huge_, actually!

Iceland blinked again, trying to figure out what had happened. The last thing he remembered was getting up to go upstairs. He hadn't' made it obviously, but why?

He made to push himself up.

_Wait_

Iceland stiffened, then slowly raised his arms. They had gotten bigger, a _lot_ bigger, and his hands... He couldn't feel his hands!

His heart picked up, hammering against his ribs.

Iceland tried moving his legs, but they wouldn't bend the right way. It's like his knees were backwards, and he had claws for feet.

Iceland opened his mouth to say something, but only the harsh cry of some bird came out.

Then, several things hit him at once.

He had a beak, an honest to god beak.

He had talons.

He had wings.

And the cloak on the page: it was from the myth of Freyja and her cloak of feathers. It gave the wearer the power to change.

To shape shift into a _falcon_.

Iceland floundered, beak opened with a screech of horror. His talons scraped futilely against the floor, and his feathers raised an ungodly racket as they hit the cold stone.

Finally, he was able to stand, or, more accurately, hunch over himself. His wings laid useless on the ground, and he panted in terror.

Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh GOD Iceland thought, frantically. The spell had worked perfectly, apparently. He looked down at himself, seeing first hand the beautiful white plumage banded with black, the ebony talons like daggers.

Yep.

Iceland had done it now.

He had turned himself into an honest to fucking god Gyrfalcon.


	2. Chapter 2: Kicked Out

Author's Note: Another chapter already, woohoo!

These chapters are going to be short, and the writing style of this fic makes it very easy to just whip them out.

This is going to go relatively quickly, I hope

Hope You Enjoy~

-Erin

* * *

><p>Iceland sat there, trying not to have an all out panic attack on the floor of Norway's basement. His feathered chest heaved with every pant, and his head swiveled this way and that, trying to fully comprehend what had happened to him.<p>

He also mentally kicked himself for being so stupid as to just read a random spell out of a random book just sitting there on the ground. He should have known better! He should have known it would do something crazy!

But there he was, magically transformed into a gyrfalcon because he was, in fact, just that stupid.

Iceland laid down on the floor he had just tried so hard to get off of. His eyes slipped close, and he tried everything he could not to completely lose it. He needed to stay calm, or as calm as a nation could be upon being turned into their national bird. He needed to think, and figure out a way to get out of there.

Iceland looked up, eyeing the stairs. They looked so intimidating from his newly reduced vantage point. But it was still his only way out.

Iceland heaved a final sigh, and got back onto his feet. The talons there weren't exactly made for walking, but he managed to achieve a solid hobble that brought him to the foot of the metal stairs. He looked up at the light coming in from the floors above, beckoning him upward. He lifted a foot up, and hooked it onto the edge.

A few minutes of trial and error and massive amounts of wing flapping gave Iceland a new, very awkward system of getting from one step to the other. It involved a wing assisted hop that actually proved rather efficient once Iceland figure out how to move the damned things.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally reached the top. He stood for a moment, surveying the radically different scene. Everything had gotten a LOT bigger than he recalled, which probably had something to do with the fact he was now only a foot tall.

Iceland shuffled along, talons clicking against the wood floor. His wings hung limp, dragging along the floor as he moved. He was sure they were supposed to rest differently, but he had other, more pressing issues at hand than how to hold a pair of wings.

The talking from the other Nordics had stopped. Iceland wasn't sure why, and he didn't like it one bit. He needed to find Norway, and the prospect of trying to to track his older brother down was daunting, even with an idea of where he was.

He shuffled along even further, eyes darting around nervously.

Before long, however, the issue of finding Norway managed to resolve itself.

The other nation appeared, wielding a fireplace poker. Iceland froze, staring first at the makeshift weapon, then at Norway himself. He look absolutely shocked by Iceland's appearance.

Norway! Iceland thought, elated. He opened his beak to say something, but only a loud cry came out. He snapped it closed again. Oh, ya; he had forgotten about that.

Norway blinked a couple of times, processing the scene. Iceland braced himself, waiting to be chewed out for being so mind bogglingly stupid as to turn himself into a bird. To his shock, however, Norway just looked over his shoulder.

"I think I left a window open!" he called.  
>What? Iceland recoiled.<p>

"There's a falcon in here. It looks a little disoriented," Norway continued. Iceland stared at him, absolutely horrified. Norway had no idea it was him.

No! It's me damnit! It's me! Iceland insisted, starting to screech. He scrambled forward, heading towards Norway's feet. Norway jumped backwards, started.

"Someone grab a blanket or a coat or _something_!" he called, showing Iceland away with the poker. Iceland skittered away, and stood, flabbergasted.

Norway thought he was just some sort of everyday, run-of-the-mill falcon.

Denmark lept into action, grabbing Sweden's coat. He handed it to Norway, who in turn set the poker down. He opened it wide, blocking the hallway almost completely. Slowly, cautiously, he approached Iceland.

"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just going to get you outside," Norway soothed, half to himself. Iceland drooped his wings, stunned.

Norway, Please! It's _me_! Iceland let out a low keen, but Norway ignored it. He approached, closer and closer, coat reached out.

Iceland made a break for it. He scrambled, talons slipping scratching, for the front door. Finland, Sweden, and Denmark all jumped to get out of the way of the frantic bird. Norway, however, was faster than Ice. The coat came down over the top of him, pinning him to the floor. Iceland screeched in dismay as everything went dark. He floundered, trying to get out from under the heavy fabric. Soon enough, he felt two hands grab him through the coat. They pinned his wings to his sides, and no matter how hard Iceland tried to get out the grip held fast.

Iceland was lifted into the air, coat still wrapped over him.

"Alright, outside with you," Norway muttered, carrying Iceland to the door. Iceland screeched again, this time in protest, but was ignored.

No no no no no NO! It's me you idiot! Iceland insisted. A door was opened, and he could feel the cool fjord air through the coat.

He was put down on the grass outside. The soil was wet beneath Iceland's claws.

The coat was pulled away, and the sudden light made Iceland cringe. He shrunk down against the grass, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

When he could finally see, Iceland took stock of his surroundings. He was outside on the field that surrounded Norway's house. The trees loomed a few meters away, taller and more foreboding than they had ever been. He turned his head, seeing Norway and the rest of the Nordics watching him, expectantly. Iceland let out a pitiful cry, trying his best to convey to them that there was something wrong. None of them got the message.

One by one, they filed back inside. Even Norway turned his back and headed into the house.

Iceland lay there, huddled in the grass. The horrific truth dawned on him, leaving him hollow and devastated.

They had no idea he had been changed.

He was on his own.


	3. Chapter 3: Flying Lessons

Author's Note: These chapters go pretty fast! Short little things...

Anywho, not much to announce here, so

Hope You Enjoy~

-Erin

* * *

><p>Iceland lay on the grass, watching the needles of the trees dance in the wind. He had the vague thought that if he laid there long enough, someone in the house might figure out something was up.<p>

He felt absolutely miserable. He didn't want to move either way. The shock of his change and his own kin not recognizing him when he really needed it cut him deeply. He wished he never read that damned book. He wished he had never come to this damned house. He should have just stayed home and slept in.

The wind picked up, and Iceland looked up. He could hear other birds chirping further in the trees. The flash of their wings showed here and there through the branches.

Slowly, Iceland picked himself up. He ruffled his feathers to clear the dirt and plant bits. He shook out his wings, and folded them neatly on his back. There was no sign of the other nordics at the house, and Iceland had to look away before too long.  
>He needed to figure out a plan, and he wasn't going to accomplish that moping about not being recognized as a goddamned bird.<p>

No, what Iceland needed was to get help from anyone who could offer it. And for him, that wasn't exactly limited to Norway. The only issue was that Iceland needed to get back to, well, Iceland! He was currently in Norway's country, and that wasn't useful at all.

Nations had their ways of getting from point _a_ to point _b_. Iceland didn't know if that applied if said nation was in the shape of a falcon. However, he could still feel the familiar presence of his people, so he was pretty sure it would.

Something in the underbrush resulted. Iceland bolted straight up, watching the spot of movement. A glimpse of fur could be seen in the leaves, passing along just inside the tree line.

Iceland's little falcon heart started to pound like a jackhammer in his chest. The creature, whatever it was, seemed to be walking away from him, but how could he know it wouldn't come back? Iceland looked around, trying to figure out a way to get out of there. The house seemed to be a good option. However, there was no guarantee he would be let back inside.

A bird fluttered over the clearing. Iceland looked up. He watched as the little songbird soared from one tree to the other.

Something dawned on Iceland.

He looked down at his wings. They would have been beautiful if they weren't on his own body. They were snow white with black tips and bands on the feathers, the classic white gyrfalcon. He unfolded them and waved them around a little. They felt big and clumsy, but in theory…

Iceland jumped as high as he could. It was a pathetic hop, but it was something. He hopped, and hopped again, trying to get as high as possible. It must have been quite a show for the nations up in the house, but it was progress! Before long Iceland tried flapping the unruly contraptions that had once been his arms.

It was a solid hour's worth of trial and error. At some point Iceland had started panting from the exertion, but he kept working at it. A different angle, a larger stroke. Little adjustments here and there.

Iceland was a bird.  
>And dammit it all, if he was a bird he was going to make the most of it and <strong>fly<strong>.

Finally, as the afternoon slipped towards early evening, Iceland's wings were sore, he was exhausted, he wanted to go home.

And he had managed to get off the ground, 20 feet into the air, and onto the branch of a large spruce.

He sat, practically ecstatic with pride and excitement. It might have been strange, but he could _fly_. It was hard and unusual and he wasn't very good at it, but dammit, he did it! He did it!

The sun was slipping downward across the sky, painting the clouds rich shades of red and violet. It would be early evening in Reykjavik.

Iceland looked down at his wings, then back up at the sky.

It was time to test his theory. One way or another, he was going to get back home.

* * *

><p>Norway waited for Iceland to show back up. The younger nation had been irritable ever since he had been left out of a mackerel fishing deal. Faroe, who Norway suspected was also on the family tree, had been in on it, but Iceland had apparently focused all his anger on Norway.<p>

Norway sighed, and relaxed into his arm chair. Denmark had gone to take a shower, and Sweden and Finland were near the kitchen, still talking business.

The falcon appearing in the hallway had been a shock to everyone. It was a rather pretty gyrfalcon. But it's eyes had been an unusual color, and it was behaving strangely.

In any case, he had gotten it outside and they had all watched as, after quite a show of hoping and flapping, the raptor had taken to a tree. Another quick glance showed the falcon had gone off to wherever it was it belonged.

Norway stretched, and placed his beer on the table. He grabbed Iceland's book, and frowned at it. He might have been a bit harsh, taking it away. But the mackerel comment was downright uncalled for. Even so…

Norway put it back down, and stood. Sweden and Finland paused to watch him before resuming their conversation. He shoved his hands in his pockets as casually as possible, and strolled down the hall. He turned towards the route to his 'workshop', the place he stashed centuries of arcane knowledge where none of the other nordic's could reach. It was his hide away, his calm refuge from the world. No one could bother him or his collections down there, and he felt like a little alone time was in order.

Or, he thought it would be undisturbed.

When Norway reached the bottom of the spiral stairs, he froze like a statue. Halfway down the short path to the workshop door was a lump on the ground. He approached it, cautiously. Upon closer inspection, it was a piece of clothing. A brown jacket, in a generic military style.

Like the one Iceland wore almost every day.

Norway looked around some more, senses on high alert.

There was the twinge of magic in the air, fading but fairly recent, and not his own wards.

A few feathers sat on the ground. He crouched down, and picked one up. It was snow white, with an ink black type.

Like a gyrfalcon. Like the same gyrfalcon that had appeared, distressed in Norway's hallway.

Norway had to swallow a wave of cold panic. He couldn't be sure of anything, there was no proof he told himself.

A book sat to one side of the hallway. Norway practically lunged at it, flipping through the ancient pages as fast as he could.

It was an old spell book he had won in a bet from a strange being. It had taken him forever to translate all the rituals and incantations inside. He must have dropped it by accident at some point.

The faint, pale glow of magic still hung around one of the passages. Norway scanned it frantically, trying to see which spell it was.

The transformation spell.

Horror settled itself in Norway's gut. He knew this spell, it was a deceptively simple one.

He glanced at the jacket, Iceland's jacket, and the feathers on the floor. Then back at the book.

Sweden, Denmark, and Finland all jumped in fright as Norway came bursting upstairs. The normally calm nation was on the verge of a panic attack. His eyes were wide, and he was white as a sheet.

"Norway! What the-" Denmark started. His hair was still dripping from the shower, and normally Norway would have been ticked off about it hitting the floor. But now was not the time for such petty matters.

"The falcon; where is it?" Norway breathed. He was almost gasping from his mad dash up the stairs.

"It flew away a few minutes ago," Finland told him. Norway stared at him, taking a few more heavy breaths. Then he turned around, threw back his head, and let out the largest stream of loud, violent Norwegian expletives anyone else in that room had ever heard.

He turned back around and lifted Iceland's jacket for the rest of the Nordics to see. It still had a couple feathers hanging on it.

"Guess which _dumbass_ decided to read one of my spell books," Norway told them. All three of their jaws fell open at the sight of the jacket. They each glanced from it to Norway, and back again.

"You mean… The bird…?" Finland asked slowly.

"Iceland found a spell that turns the user into a _falcon_. A _gyrfalcon_. Like Freyja's cloak!" Norway exclaimed. The other nordics still stared.

"So… we gotta find that falcon!" Denmark announced, shaking off the surprise and some more water.

"Wait, I thought Iceland couldn't do magic?" Sweden pointed out.

"That's the problem," Norway slumped against a wall. His fear was turning to sick, sick nausea. He got a questioning look.

"Why?" Denmark asked.

"Because if Iceland doesn't get changed back by the next full moon," Norway explained, voice growing strained. "He won't be able to turn back _ever_." He put a hand over his face, trying to hide his distress as best as possible. The horrific implication was hard to stomach. "He'll become a falcon completely. In mind _and_ body. He'll be stuck that way for the rest of his life!


End file.
